30s fit me like a glove. They suit me.
That’s what I recite like a mantra when the reality hits me in the face and I think about the life I have now and the life I imagined I was going to have when I was younger.
I do experience most of the things I wanted for myself, but when I look back at the 13 year old me I find an angry teen that looks me in the eye and asks: “What happened to writing? Why don’t you write anymore?”
The quick answer is lack of time. The perks of being an adult. I know that’s bullshit, and it bothers me a lot. Too much. I finally decided to so something about it.
I solemnly make a promise to myself, and leave it in writing, and for other people to see, that I will write something once a week. And I will publish it on medium. I found a list of “writing prompts” and I will start with those, to continue with whatever else.
The first one reads: “Write a quick love story. The story must end badly”.
I wrote something, something quick. In English, to add some little extra fun and leave my native Spanish comfort zone. I am not going to do that thing where I write something and leave it to be revised and corrected 1000 times, so it never gets finished or published.
I will read this later and find dozens of mistakes, but let’s prioritize the promise and the writing above all.
Here it goes:
He smiled at her from across the restaurant. She blushed, that was enough. Two strangers in a distant land woke up the next morning side by side, both knowing it had been the best night in their lives.
After a fantasy week he said goodbye to her at the airport, with the promise of meeting again as soon as he got back to their hometown. It had been good, she thought while the plane left the ground and she put the ring back in her finger. He didn’t need to know the truth, so she would always remain in his memory as the woman she pretended to be when she was with him. The woman she wanted to be, but never would.
